To Kill a Copycat
by OrcaTimes
Summary: A copycat killer seems to be taking a keen interest in Sara's past. Will the CSI team catch up with the murderer before he catches up with her? T for abusive and dark themes.
1. Prologue

**Prologue  
**She was twelve years old, and known by her peers as nothing more than a reclusive geek. This was a fairly apt label; at that age her bruises were often shielded by baggy sweaters and the emotional trauma veiled in a hunger for knowledge.  
Sara Sidle was the poster child for the teenage paradigm of 'no one understands me', quite simply because no one did.

Although Sara had a basic, socialised understanding that violence is wrong, she had never really thought anything of how her family interacted with one another. From an early age she had borne witness to the shouting matches between her parents with the occasional cameo from her older brother, and they always seemed to end in blows. Her father seemed to emanate rage from the pores in his skin, and the first time he ever laid a hand on her the yelling and screaming was forced to a halt. Both her mother and father stood still and stared at their young daughter, sprawled on the floor with her arm bent at a funny angle, colour drained from her ashen face.  
At the hospital, nurses cooed over their four-year-old patient, her broken ulna fobbed off as a clumsy pair of juvenile feet and an unnoticed. They didn't think twice that the cause could have been anything more sinister; because no one likes to admit that not all dads treat their little girls as princesses.

After that, it was as if a dam had broken. Sara was no longer immune to her father's temper, and her first day of kindergarten saw her accompanied by an angry contusion to her upper arm that was hastily covered with a long-sleeved dress.  
By sixth grade Sara was well aware that the concept of a perfect family environment was nothing more than a fairytale. Everywhere she looked she saw evidence of broken homes, and with no friends to compare with it didn't seem pertinent to create trouble over her own.  
Over the years she steadily built up an extensive medical record that ranged from hairline rib fractures to a broken jaw, excuses made and played for every single one of them. Sara would sit and smile and comment on how clumsy she was, reasoning internally that this wasn't abnormal- everybody did it. Everybody lies to cover up the cracks in the foundation.

* * *

Things came to a head shortly before her thirteenth birthday, when her mother finally snapped and stabbed her father to death with a kitchen knife. The first stroke missed his organs and instead penetrated into his chest cavity, while the second severed his aorta. By the fourth stab, he was dead. The fifth, sixth and seventh were just for good measure.  
Sara, dowsed in paternal blood, sat clutching a rag doll in the corner of the kitchen. She was shaking uncontrollably, eyes fixated on the body before her. Her mother was frighteningly unresponsive even as the police officers came to take her away, knife dropped at her feet and the shadow of a smile ghoulishly lingering across her crimson-spattered cheeks.  
A smell of blood and death hung heavily in the air that permeated Sara's nostrils for the weeks to come.

A woman from social services arrived to take Sara into care, taking her by the hand and leading her away from the scene of the crime. Her clothes had been taken as evidence and Sara had been given a fleece jacket by one of the investigators that did nothing to ease her shivering body. They'd taken her doll, too.  
The girl clutched at the social worker's hand, taking one last look at her tainted childhood home.

* * *

**A/N: Title is a work-in-progress. Reviews would be much appreciated (: Thank you for reading.**


	2. Correlation

**A/N: Thank you all for the reviews! I actually wasn't expecting to get any for the prologue because it was so short, so it was a nice surprise.  
This story is set pre Nesting Dolls, so no one has any knowledge of Sara's difficult past.**

* * *

**Chapter 1 – Correlation**

There was nothing quite like coming home to a tasty meal and a warm bed after a double shift; perhaps accompanied by a long soak in the bath to ease tired muscles.

Unfortunately for Sara, this was not quite how her evening transpired. An empty refrigerator, a cold apartment, and no hot water meant yet _another _takeout -Chinese this time, and questionable in quality-, a lukewarm shower and having to bundle up to the extent that she somewhat resembled an Inuit before she slipped between her chilled sheets.  
Normally she wouldn't care that her working week had been so long, but for some reason it had drained her, and she was glad to take advantage of a long sleep to refresh her tired mind.  
It didn't take her long to drift off, but she had barely been unconscious for four hours when her cellphone began to ring. Sara groaned out loud at the shrill noise, knowing that a phone call at such ungodly hours could only mean one thing- murder.  
She answered the phone with a groggy greeting as she flopped back down onto her pillow.

"It's dispatch. You've been called to the scene of a crime." Sara sighed, rubbing her heavy eyelids.

"It's my night off, can't you call someone else in?"

"Mr. Grissom asked for you specifically." This caused her to sit upright, arching her back to stretch her muscles as she did so.

"Fine. Text me the address and tell Grissom I'm on my way." Snapping her cell shut, she slipped into a turtleneck sweater and jeans, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. She'd left her forensics jacket and kit in the trunk of her car rather than at the lab, so she reasoned that she'd have enough time for a strong coffee before she left.

* * *

The cold air that hit her as she stepped out of her building helped to awaken her brain, and by the time she'd reached the crime scene she was feeling much more able to function. She shrugged on her jacket, slipped her ID badge over her neck and took a breath before opening the car door.  
The preliminary report that dispatch had messaged her stated that the victim had died of multiple stab wounds, but hadn't given much else away. Sara knew that Grissom hated ruling anything out prematurely.  
The man in question was crouched by the front door, torch in hand, looking typically zoned-in on his current endeavour. Sara made sure not to disturb neither him nor any evidence as she crouched beside him, focusing her attention on the footprint before them.

"Looks small- a woman's size maybe?" She ventured as she pulled out her camera to take a few shots. Grissom's brow furrowed.

"Perhaps. Could be the medic's, though. I'll have Brass confirm." She nodded. Can't rule anything out.

"Who's the vic?"

"Unidentified male with multiple stab wounds, I'd estimate mid-to-late thirties." He stood, motioning to the front door that stood ajar. "Shall we?" The scent of blood was thick in the air as they crossed the threshold.

"The body doesn't appear to have been moved," Grissom continued, leading Sara towards the kitchen. "But something feels a little off about this case.

"Off? What do you-" She trailed off mid-sentence as she took in the scene. A man laid in a pool of his own blood; the crimson liquid saturating his clothes. She could just about make out multiple wounds in amongst the whole mess, and as she lifted her camera to take a shot something in the corner of the room caught her eye.

"The cast-off from the blood seems to indicate that the first stab caused the victim to fall. The splatter against the counters looks as if the blood hit at an upward direction. Could be an act of passion; maybe the killer hadn't intended to..." Grissom's voice faded away with the realisation that Sara wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to him. He followed her eyes to a rag doll propped in the corner, leaning against the kitchen counters and spattered in blood. Its little button eyes and stitched smile were framed by brown woollen hair,  
The expression on his fellow CSI's face was strange, a sense of familiarity amongst confusion and consternation.

"What do you think about the doll? Symbolic?" He asked, head cocked to the side. Sara made no reply, and they both stared at the doll for a minute before she spoke again.

"How many times was the vic stabbed?" She asked, voice seeming void of all emotion. Grissom's gaze moved back to the body, visually searching his bloody chest.

"Hard to say. Six, maybe seven times. Why?" Sara shook her head, as if trying to shake all of her thoughts out of her mind. Gil got the feeling that she didn't want to be pressed on the matter.

"No reason." She lifted her camera again, and began to process the scene.

* * *

Back at the lab, Sara stared intently at the photographs she'd taken back at the house, brow furrowed and a cold cup of tea at her elbow. Mandy had run the victim's prints through AFIS, identifying him as one Jeffrey Henderson. She'd acquired a copy of his rap sheet for Sara's case file, and every so often she would glance at it to re-read the words printed there. One count of domestic abuse. The victim, his wife, had withdrawn her complaint.

"You thinking it was the wife gettin' revenge?" Sara jumped; she'd been so wrapped up in her work that she hadn't noticed Nick enter the room. She shrugged, forcing a smile as he set a fresh brew down in front of her. This case was so familiar, but she wasn't yet ready to confide her suspicions to anyone.

"That'd usually be my first guess. But the whole thing's a little weird."

"How d'you mean?" Nick leant over Sara to look over the crime scene photos, his gaze resting on the one of the doll. "Ah."

"Yep. DNA from the blood on the toy is being scanned, but I can't imagine it's anyone other than the vic's."

"Could be the killer's signature. A serial?" Sara shook her head, transfixed on the photo.

"I have a feeling that this is the first."

* * *

Hidden amongst the books on Sara's shelf at home was a plain brown file, and she reached for it the moment she got back after her shift ended. She thumbed through the pages, coming to rest at the photos of the scene of her father's murder. In particular, those that involved herself. She absent-mindedly stroked the picture of the doll the forensics team had taken from her and bagged as evidence, trying to remember its name. Was it Ruby? Rosie, maybe?  
Sitting on her carpeted bedroom floor, she spread out the sheets of paper before her. Hers, her brother's and her mother's statements, fingerprint and DNA comparisons, photographic evidence. She quickly glanced at the documentation of the injuries she had sustained the last time her father had ever touched her, cringing slightly. The bruising looked bad but had been superficial; no broken bones this time around. She shuddered as she remembered the SAE kit they'd made her have, despite her telling them that she'd never been touched 'in that way'.  
She hated looking at the photos, and quickly turned them over so she wouldn't have to. The clothes she had been wearing had also been documented, and it was these pictures that caused her to double-take. Her dress was second-hand and the hem was frayed a little bit from years of wear. It was blue but the colour had faded some. The dark spatter of blood, however, drew any attention away from the signs of heavy use.  
Sara reached for her purse and withdrew her cellphone, pulling up the photo of the rag doll from the crime scene earlier that day.  
Everything, from the hole in the skirt of the doll's dress to her dark brown hair matched her twelve-year-old self from nearly two decades ago.

The doll was modelled after her. The killer, somehow, knew about her father's death.

* * *

**A/N: Not really feeling so good about this chapter. Probably because I've been reading so many other CSI fics that are absolutely incredibly written and I could never reach that calibre in my writing!  
But never mind, onwards and upwards.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	3. Anamnesis

**Chapter 2 – Anamnesis **

"_Did you mom hurt your dad, Sara?" The police detective asked, trying to keep his tone light and friendly towards the twelve-year-old girl he'd been given the task of interviewing. It was a messy case, but an open-and-close one; the kind that the crime lab liked best. He watched the child, who hadn't moved her gaze from the table in front of her. She was fairly small for her age, her growth spurt yet to hit. She was pale and a little gaunt, her complexion comparable to that of the body of her father, lying on a cold slab down in the morgue. A couple of blood specks had dried on her cheek, and the detective had to keep himself from leaning forward to wipe them off. _

"_It's okay, honey. You can answer him, you aren't gonna get in trouble with anyone." The social worker reached out to pat her newest charge on the shoulder, but the girl flinched away, nibbling on her bottom lip as she did so._

"_We know that someone at home hurt you a lot. The nice doctors at the hospital told us about all the trips you had to take to see them. Wanna tell me about that?" Another shrug. Detective Jenson sighed; they weren't getting anywhere. Had Sara been just a few years older, the good-cop-bad-cop routine might have done the trick in getting her to talk, but however bad he was with kids Jenson knew that that was likely to go down badly both with Sara and with the social worker. For all the good work they did, child services had an unfortunate habit of hindering cases at times. He was about to wrap up the case when, finally, the girl spoke._

"_You don't have to treat me like a little kid, I know what this is about. Is my mom gonna go to jail?" She tried to keep her tone stoical, but her impassive front was betrayed when her voice wobbled. Both the detective and the social worker understood. This kid had been through a lot, but she still loved her family._

"_You're right, sorry about that. I don't mean to be patronising. We don't know what'll happen to your mom yet. We might be able to help her; but only if _you _help _us_." Sara nodded to show her understanding, and took a deep, shuddering breath to avoid breaking down in tears._

"_They fight a lot, mom and dad. He gets really angry, but he can't help it." She sighed heavily, nervously tapping her fingers on the table._

"_Did you ever tell anyone? A teacher at school, maybe? A doctor?" The girl shook her head no. "How come?" He asked, even though he figured he'd heard the answer a thousand times before. Her answer surprised him._

"_I didn't think it was abnormal." She replied, clenching her fists. From the few words she had spoken to him, Jenson could tell that she was an articulate and polite young lady, although her manner was a bit aloof. He opened his mouth to try and comfort the child, but found no words._

"_Did your mom kill your dad, Sara?" She was silent for a couple of minutes before she spoke again._

"_Yes. She killed him."_

* * *

The appearance woman sitting opposite Sara in the interrogation room was typical of someone being accused of the murder of their abusive husband. She could see glimpses of a once determined and resolute individual, but this resolve had frayed over the years into a wrought and anxious mess. Her dark hair looked messy and a bit wild, and her clothes were wrinkled. The epitome of exhaustion.

"Mrs. Henderson, I'm so sorry for your loss." Sara began, the customary greeting in this situation. Julie Henderson nodded her thanks and mumbled something that the CSI couldn't quite make out. It almost sounded like she'd said "It's not a loss." Sara decided to let that one go.

"When was the last time you saw your husband?" Julie looked away, her arms wrapped around herself as if to shield herself from the cold- or perhaps the confusion and grief.

"Two days ago. I was out of town when I got the call saying he was dead." Sara nodded. This was good news; the woman might have an alibi. Sara hated prosecuting women who'd been driven to murder by abusive partners- it didn't seem fair.

"Did anything seem unusual to you, the last time you saw him?"

"No." She sighed; the woman obviously didn't want to open up to her.

"Mrs. Henderson, we were able to identify your husband by his fingerprints due to a criminal charge from two years ago. A charge that was filed by you. Can you tell me about that?" Julie shrugged, offering no reply. "It says that he had acted in an abusive manner towards you. Is that correct?"

"I overreacted." She replied coldly. "We had a fight. That's all." The CSI frustratedly ran her fingers through her brunette locks. They weren't really getting anywhere.

"I understand. Can someone vouch for your whereabouts for the time of your husband's death? I'm sorry to ask, but it's our procedure." Another shrug of Julie's shoulders, another sigh from Sara. This was shaping up to be a long night.

* * *

Later on, Sara pressed her forehead against the cool metal of her locker. She felt oddly anxious and completely drained by recent events, and wanted nothing more than for things to return to normality.

"Hey, Sara." Warrick's greeting interrupted her train of thought. "Tough case? I heard you couldn't lift any prints from the murder weapon." She turned to face her friend, flashing him a brief smile and sinking onto the bench in the middle of the locker room.

"Nope. No fibres, no fingerprints, nothing. Looks like the handle was wiped clean. But the killer left the knife for us to find, almost as if he's taunting us." Warrick sat beside Sara, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. His brow was furrowed.

"He? I thought your only suspect was-"

"The wife, yeah. But I don't buy it. This case it's just..." She trailed off. "Do you ever have a case that just hits you differently?"

"Sure. Anything involving kids hits me pretty hard. Like the Collins case." Sara sighed heavily. It wasn't quite what she had meant, but she had a feeling he wouldn't understand if she tried to explain. He might think she was going crazy.  
"Hey, Sidle," He put an arm round her shoulder and squeezed her tight. "Keep your chin up, girl. Can't have you going all soppy on me."

* * *

Sara leant against the door frame of Grissom's office, watching her supervisor has he intently studied a jar of roaches on his desk. His stare was fervent, and full of fascination. She cleared her throat to get his attention. He looked up at her briefly before moving his gaze back to the bugs, motioning for her to come in. She slid into the chair in front of his desk, and they both sat in silence for a minute or two as she tried to build up the nerve to talk to him and he studied his insects.

"_Blattella germanica,_" He stated, breaking the silence. "More commonly known as the German Cockroach."

"Yeah, that's... Great. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something."

"They have wings, but they're unable to sustain flight. They reach sexual maturity faster than any other species of roach..." He mused, talking more to himself than to Sara. "And one of the few that is considered as a pest." The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as if he was amused by this. Sara stared at him incredulously.

"Gris, this is kind of important." She tried -and failed- to keep the emotion from her voice. Grissom finally looked up at his CSI. She looked a little run-down, with dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes and a pasty complexion.

"Hm? Did you say something?" Sara shook her head. He seemed more interested in his stupid bugs than her. She'd suddenly lost all courage to confide in him, and instead left him to his damned roaches.

* * *

Sara drove home after her shift with every intention to crawl into bed and stay there for the next eight to ten hours. Her head throbbed with stress and exhaustion, her stomach twisted into a knot of nausea that no amount of peppermint tea could relax. She inserted the key into her apartment's lock and turned it, expecting to hear a click as the mechanism shifted. There was no click- had she forgotten to lock the door?  
Instinctively, she drew her gun, turning the safety off and raising it to eye-level. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and pointed the weapon straight ahead of her. Sara quickly checked the kitchen, living room, and bathroom for signs of an intruder, leaving the bedroom until last. Upon entering the room, her vision was drawn immediately to a photograph placed on her unmade bed. It was from her father's case file, which she was sure she had tidied away. The picture was one of the ones of a young Sara Sidle from the hospital, of bruising and belt marks made by her father.  
Sinking onto her bed, she picked it up and stared at it, feeling a flush rise up her face and neck. She didn't understand: why her? Why this photo?  
She tried to push all thought of it out of her mind; she was frankly too exhausted. She would speak to someone about it tomorrow, but right now she just wanted to sleep. Returning the photograph to it's file, she collapsed into bed and, almost immediately, sank into a deep and troubled sleep.

* * *

_"Here, this will have to do for tonight." Sara's emergency foster care placement was a rotund, bustling woman, and the first time she got a proper look at her newest foster child was when she handed her an oversized t-shirt and some cotton shorts. Most kids arrived with a black garbage bag filled with clothes, teddy bears, whatever made them feel more at home; but since Sara's entire house was a crime scene she hadn't brought anything with her. The girl tried to mumble her thanks, but no words came out. It was 3am, and she was both physically and emotionally drained. She couldn't cry any longer.  
The woman watched her pityingly, only able to imagine what Sara was going through. "Get some sleep, honey." She told the girl._

"_Wait," Sara spoke up as the woman turned to leave. "Where's my brother?" The woman sighed._

"_They'll have found somewhere else for him to stay hun. He's sixteen, he can take care of himself. Don't worry about it, you can see him soon enough." Sara looked away, disappointed and grieved. Her father was dead, her mother in jail, and her brother split up from her. She was alone._

* * *

Sara slept longer than she had in a while, and when she finally woke up she fixed herself a strong mug of tea and took a long shower. She scrubbed her body clean and wished she could do the same with her memories. She had time to think hard about what her next steps should be, who she should talk to, how to approach it. She could take her case file to work, leave it and the crime scene photos on Grissom's desk, in Nick's locker, tucked inside Catherine's field kit. That way, she wouldn't have to say anything, or see the look on her confidant's face. She could turn away, let them make their own judgement.  
Or she could go for the sincere route- the cups of joe, cosy chat, slip-dark-past-and-creepily-similar-murder-into-the-conversation route. Friendly. Personal. Maybe too personal?

Sara was brought out of her reverie by her cell, a sound that inexplicably chilled her blood. She knew what the message would be before she got it.

"Sara, it's Grissom," the voice on the other line said as soon as she answered. "There's been another stabbing. I need you here right away."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading, guys. If you could leave me a review, I'd appreciate it more than you know; favourites and alerts are lovely but it's the reviews that really keep me going. As it is, I'm lacking in confidence right now so it'd really be nice to get your opinions on my writing- good or bad, anything helps. It doesn't take long to really make someone's day (:**

**Thanks again.**


	4. Modus Operandi

**A/N: So I was flopping around on the internet and I found a pretty cool website that analyses the way you write and tells you the author your writing is similar to- pretty cool! Just Google 'I write like', and if you use it let me know who you come up with (:  
Fairly short chapter, but it's been a while since I updated so I thought I'd put it up anyway. Thanks for reading!**

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**Chapter 3 – Modus Operandi**

A shroud of foreboding enveloped Sara as she approached the crime scene, nodding in thanks to the officer who held up the yellow 'DO NOT ENTER' tape for her to duck under.  
Her long rest may have done nothing to alleviate her anxiety, but she forced herself to approach this 420 with an open mind. She told herself, stubbornly, that she'd been exhausted when she'd processed the last crime scene, she had let her past experiences cloud her judgement.  
Grissom was wrong; there is such thing as a coincidence. And these murders are a prime example of just that.

Sara forced herself into a sense of denial, because she couldn't rationalise the reality.

"Same M.O? She asked as she approached her supervisor, his Nikon camera pointed at a bloody footprint on the driveway. Gil snapped a couple of photos and smiled at Sara in greeting.

"Same M.O." He confirmed. "There's something rather peculiar about the situation though- you should look at it." She followed him to the kitchen, both CSIs treading carefully to avoid compromising any evidence.

The victim laid in a pool of his blood, the crimson liquid starting to congeal into thick clots. Sara tried to count the wounds that pierced his thorax, bit his shirt too bloodied to be precise.  
A doll, an exact copy of the one at the first scene, sat in the corner of the kitchen- but this time it wasn't the weirdest thing present. Sara's gaze was apprehensively drawn to a pair of X-Rays, secured to the refrigerator door with ABC magnets like a child's drawing. One was of an arm, the other of a chest. She froze, her blood running ice cold in frigid veins.

"What do you think?" Grissom asked, head cocked to one side as he studied her expression. She had to clear her throat to be able to speak again.

"This one," She indicated to the first film. "Shows a spiral fracture to the wrist, usually attained when someone grabs you and pulls at a certain angle. There's a couple of metal pins in the arm already, it's been fractured previously." She swallowed the lump in her throat as she demonstrated on her own arm. "The other X-Ray shows several callouses on the ribs- old, healed breaks; and some new hairline fractures. Put together, the injuries are indicative of chronic abuse."  
"This... Patient is a child, judging by the size of the radius and ulna. Whoever treated this kid was negligent, didn't pick up on the signs..." Gil observed her with a perplexed expression.

"I had no idea you were so well-informed in radiography and orthopaedics, Sara. I was actually hoping to get your thoughts on why the killer would have left these here for us to see. There seems to be a pattern of abuse, what do you think?" Taking a sharp breath that sent shooting pains to her diaphragm, Sara turned to face him.

"Grissom, I really need to tell you something." Trying to build up the courage to confess her darkest ghosts to Gil was like trying to coax a roaring flame out of a single ember. Sometimes the flame would just take, burning bright and big, and sometimes it would just fade out. Now was the time; Sara knew what she had to say.

"Hey, Mr. Grissom, sir?" The croaked out voice of Brass' new recruits stole their attention. Both CSIs turned towards the young man, who had an almost green pallor and seemed to be trying extremely hard not to look at the body. It was obvious to both that this was his first crime scene. "Detective Brass is outside. Wants to speak to you." Nodding in thanks, Grissom turned to Sara with an apologetic shrug. Watching his retreating back, she sighed. She slipped out the house while Gil and Jim were preoccupied. Her little ember of courage had been snuffed out; she had no choice but to try another tactic.

* * *

The steam from the hot bath water twisted into ghostly ribbons in the air. Sara sat on the edge of the tub, swirling the liquid in her glass around and staring into space. Scotch was her go-to beverage for break ups, bad days and nightmares, and tonight was no different. She swallowed the remains of her third drink of the night, set the glass down and reached for her favourite bubble bath- jasmine and green tea. It usually helped her to unwind somewhat, although her brain never seemed to truly switch off.  
She poured a liberal amount of the liquid into the water, wrinkling her nose at the sickly, almost pungent scent it seemed to have. She made a mental note to purchase a new bottle; this one seemed to be past its best. Sara slipped out of her bathrobe and eased herself into the tub. Whether it was the temperature of the water or the effects of the alcohol, she did not know, but within seconds her hands and feet began to go numb. The feeling -or rather, lack thereof- slipped up her limbs, and the room before her began to swim. Her head pounded as though her blood was gushing through her brain as a tidal wave, and as everything faded to black she was just about aware of a pair of hands grabbing at her arms and yanking her out of the bath.

* * *

I** have fifteen followers for this story, and eight reviews. Seriously guys, what's up with that?**  
**Thanks for reading, please do leave a review. I spend hours writing every chapter and it would only take you a few seconds to comment on it (:**

**Thank you to Keira15, Lucy Ruth, Cerbere, AA – MamaBirdCat, TheYellowBrickRoadToTheTARDIS and was spratlurid quimby for doing just that- it means a lot you guys.**


	5. Scrutiny

**A/N (FAIRLY IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ): Okay, so this will be a short chapter. I started writing this back in May last year, but life sort of got in the way. My plan was to pick writing back up in the new year, now that I****'m more settled into a routine that works for me, but my boyfriend passed away suddenly just after Christmas and FFn just sort of got pushed on the back burner for a little bit. I thought I'd publish what I'd written before he died, just to show you that I'm not done with this story yet, but I'd really appreciate your patience. Thanks, you lovely people.**

* * *

**Chapter 5 - Scrutiny**

No matter how many hours each CSI at LVPD had spent in the field, this was the call-out that they all dreaded. It was the type of thing that caused nightmares tripled with palpitations and sweaty skin, and a silent prayer before each and every shift.

Dispatch put the call through to Captain Brass specifically, and it was he who called the rest of the graveyard shift in as soon as he got the message. He was met, each time, with a bubble of protest that burst as soon as he informed them that the crime scene involved one of their own.  
Ecklie came into the lab despite it being his week off, and a couple of familiar faces from day and swing shift even made an appearance to offer their services.

"What happened here?" The Texan drawl was tinged with anxiety, and Jim turned to acknowledge Nick with an equally grave expression. Stokes was the third of the graveyard team to arrive after Grissom and Catherine, with Greg and Warrick yet to make their appearances. Information had already been released to the press, and the news would be on the screens of all Las Vegas televisions within a few hours.

"We're not sure. The neighbour called it in, said she'd found the door left ajar and thought it was weird because Sara's car is in the parking lot. Other than that, there doesn't seem to be much of a disturbance. Catherine and Gris are in the bathroom." Nick nodded in understanding.

"Thanks, Jim." He crossed through the living room to join his co-workers, both of whom were crouched, searching for any trace evidence. "The bathtub's been drained, but it's still wet," He noted aloud. "Do you think she was... I mean, could someone have..." Catherine shook her head at him.

"Don't even think that, Nicky. As far as I'm concerned, she's still alive and well right now." The Texan nodded. Until they had a lead, hope was all they had to lean on.

"I don't think she could have been... Drowned here." Grissom's words were uttered quietly. His CSIs turned to look at him, eyebrows raised questioningly. "See the water droplets?" He continued, indicating to the trail of water leading out of the room. "If someone was trying to kill her, what would Sara do?"

"Fight back." Catherine replied.

"Of course she would. So there would be water everywhere, but this indicates that there wasn't a struggle."

"So you think she was unconscious?" Nick asked, bending down to examine the trail.

"There's no blood, maybe she was drugged. The kidnapper could have slipped a mickey into her drink." Catherine lifted the tumbler to her face with gloved hands, taking a sniff.

"Sure, but how would he have roofied her drink with her in the apartment? Think he drugged the whole bottle?" He headed back through into the living room, and retrieved the bottle. If they could identify the reason as to why Sara hadn't put up a fight, it might give them something to go on.

"Brass, have your UNIs set up a perimeter. See if we can find a vehicle, the direction they were going in, anything." Catherine commanded. Usually Jim would have raised an eyebrow at her forwardness, but today all he could do was nod and turn to give the orders to his men. How they got Sara back, he didn't care, but he just wanted her home safely. And every minute, every hour that passed, the chances of that happening were minimised.

* * *

As she started to wake, the splitting headache raging inside her skull made her wish that she could fall back into unconsciousness again. She kept her eyes tightly shut, afraid that the light would make the pain worse. She was faintly aware that she was no longer in the bath, and also that she couldn't remember getting out. How much must she have had to drink, she wondered, to be so hungover?

Her senses sharpened slightly more, and she became suddenly aware that the smell that lingered in the air was not that of her apartment's. The sensation of rope against her wrists jumped to the forefront of her mind, and her eyes snapped open. Thudding pain pulsed in her skull, but her survival instincts took precedence over her headache, and she forced her lids to remain open. The room was spinning, but she managed to focus in on her wrists, bound by rope. She tried to wriggle her legs, and found that they had also been tied together. Her gaze then moved to the wall. The walls were painted a soft lilac shade with a white trim, and Sara's brow furrowed as something stirred deep within the recesses of her memory. She couldn't quite place the feeling, but she couldn't shake it either.  
A fresh wave of nausea accompanied her movement as she turned to get a look at the rest of the room, and Sara shut her eyes and willed for the feeling to go away. She couldn't handle getting sick at this point; survival was priority number one. Once the feeling passed, she carefully turned to look around. The room was empty, and across from her was a white wooden door with a brass handle. There was nothing special to her, no visible way of escaping, and it all confused Sara greatly. Her mind, scrambled and laced with pain, couldn't make anything of the situation. None of this made sense.

"Mmm..." Sara groaned, the rope grazing the skin of her wrists as she tried to wriggle free. "H-hello? What's going on? Please, let me go!" No one came, and a desperate sob escaped her throat. She was well aware of the fact that she was naked, and the vulnerability only made her situation seem more dire. No corpse found undressed had ever suffered a 'peaceful' death.

* * *

**A/N: It might be a while before I feel ready to carry on with this, just a warning to you all. I'm just trying to avoid subjects that revolve around death right now. ****I'd love to have a few reviews on this chapter- in fact I think I want your support more than ever, now.**

**Thanks for reading.**


	6. Compound

**A/N: I'm back! I just wanted to say a very sincere thank you to everyone who left such a positive comment or sent me a message. It was hard to reply to many of them, and I hope you won't think me rude for that. It's been a very difficult couple of years, and I'm still feeling low but I've decided that I should put some of that negative energy into writing. It always did make me feel better :)  
I also wanted to say that I am in no way a scientist; I do try to research what I can before I write and I have some knowledge of forensic psychology but between working full time and working some more, I don't have as much time to figure things out before I write them. So if what I'm writing doesn't make sense I apologise.**

**Anyway, here's the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter Six - Compound**

The lab was a flurry of activity. All minor cases had been pushed to the back burner while Sara's disappearance was being investigated, and lab techs could be seen scurrying around each other trying to get their evidence analysed as quickly as possible. No stone was being left unturned, every possible angle investigated to give the CSI team the best chance of finding their friend. In the midst of it all was Greg Sanders, jostling anyone and everyone aside in his hurry to reach Catherine, Warrick, Nick and Grissom, who had set up camp in the briefing room.  
Greg skidded to a halt in front of the door, and everyone looked up at him expectantly, a mix of worry and terrible concern on their faces.

"I know how they got Sara out of her apartment," He burst out, panting slightly from his brief surge of activity. "I tested her drink for everything I could think of; muscle relaxants, ketamine, rohypnol, neuromuscular paralytic drugs-"

"Get to the point, Greg!" Nick snapped. Everyone turned to him in surprise. Nick was usually such an easygoing guy that it was unusual to see him so worked up. Greg cleared his throat.

"Yeah, right- sorry. Anyway, I came up empty, so I tested that bottle of bubble bath you guys found. Originally I was just going to brush it for prints, but I thought-" This time it was Catherine who interrupted him.

"Bubble bath? Why would Sara be drinking bubble bath?" She had an almost bemused expression on her face.

"Not drinking, no. _Inhaling_." The team watched him in confusion.

"Now isn't the time for a dramatic pause, Greg." Grissom said calmly.

"I'm _trying_ to tell you what I found!" He shot back defensively. "I found traces of Trichloromethane in the bottle- chloroform." His work done, Greg slipped into a chair beside Warrick. They all stared at him for a minute.

"So, Sara goes to take a bath, uses her usual bubble bath. The bottle said it was sposed to smell like jasmine and green tea, so she probably wouldn't think anything of the smell of chloroform; it has a sweet scent to it and it's colourless, so not easy to notice..." Warrick mused.

"She breathes in the scent, and the steam," Catherine continued. "And it does it's job; knocks her clean out so she's easier to grab, easier to move out of the building. But then what? Have we had any luck with CCTV in the building?" Nick shook his head.

"I asked Brass; no luck. Archie's working through the tapes we got from intersections and all that. He said he'd page me if he found anything." Grissom nodded, his fingers entwined. He looked more pensive than any of the team had seen him in a long while.

"Hold up a sec, how would the perp know that Sara was going to use that bubble bath tonight?" Warrick asked, shifting the focus of the room to him.

"Did anyone speak to her at last night's DB? Was she stressed?" Catherine posed the question to the room. "Sara's a creature of habit; I imagine she has a certain routine for every mood she's ever felt."

"We talked a bit after the Henderson case," Warrick said, his eyebrows knitting as he concentrated on remembering what Sara had said. "She didn't seem stressed so much as tired. Said that the case seemed a little odd to her, but she couldn't put her finger on it." Grissom stood, so suddenly that several of the team jumped in surprise.

"She came to me, twice." He said, his face racked with shock and guilt. "She wanted to talk to me but," He trailed off for a second before continuing. "The first time I was studying my roaches. The second, we were at yesterday's crime scene and we were interrupted. I didn't think to go back and ask her what the problem was." He looked miserable as he sank back into his seat, covering his face with his hands, that Catherine reached out to pat him on the arm." She looked out at the faces in front of her.

"This isn't doing any good. Nicky, you and Warrick are coming back to Sara's apartment with me. We're going over it with a fine-toothed comb, you hear me? Greg, pull all the cases that Sara had been working on in the last two weeks; _especially _the two domestic murders. We need to see what Sara is seeing. Grissom, how about you go to Brass, see about finding out who Sara's next-of-kin is. Sara's a closed book, but there's got to be someone out there who knows her better than we do. Okay?" Grissom nodded, still ashen in the face. They were all getting to their feet when he spoke again.

"There _is_ someone who knows her better than we do," He said quietly. "The person who abducted her."

* * *

_"Please can I see my brother?" Sara begged for the umpteenth time. She was starting to gain a healthy bit of weight, and the last gift from her father before he died -a collection of bruises, fractured ribs, and a broken wrist- were healing nicely. She had been taken into care over three weeks ago, and in that time had barely ever stopped asking for her brother. She seemed to have swept all memory of her parents under a carpet in her mind, but she badly missed her older sibling. The foster carer reasoned that the brother -was the name Jamie? Jesse?- had played some sort of parental role in Sara's life, maybe protected her to the best of his ability. The boy, by all accounts, was deeply troubled, and the social workers attached to each child had decided that it would be best to suspend contact for now. Neither knew where the other was staying, Sara with a foster family and Jesse in a halfway house. It would be easier this way to find the girl a more permanent home, although the odds of this ever happening seemed to be decreasing every day. Most foster carers preferred the younger kids, and Sara was no small child to be read stories to and tucked up in bed every night. She was more intelligent than many adults even at age twelve, to the point of being a bit of a know-it-all. She was a sweet girl, true enough; but her age combined with her horrific childhood, culminating with the murder of her father right in front of her, had most long-term foster families turning her down before they had even finished reading her file. It was a sad situation, but not an uncommon one by any stretch of the mind. It seemed likely that Sara would be moved from placement to placement -as she had been twice already since coming into care- until she was old enough to be placed in some sort of facility for young people. A bleak prospect for a child of any years, let alone the tender age of twelve._

* * *

Sara woke suddenly as someone cut through the ropes that bound her wrists. She could not remember falling back to sleep, and she was disorientated and dazed for a few seconds as she was brought back to consciousness.

"Hello, Sara." The voice made her jump. She thought it sounded familiar, but she couldn't quite place it at this level of exhaustion and, now she was more awake, panic.

"What's going on? Where am I? Who are you?" She gabbled, trying to focus her eyes as the ropes binding her legs fell away. She was still in the lilac room. The man standing in front of her pulled Sara to her feet, and laughed. He had a cruel laugh, mocking and contemptuous.

"Don't you recognise it?" Sara said nothing, her eyes wide in fear. The man's eyes narrowed. "You don't recognise me either, do you? Stupid bitch." The last two words were muttered, but loud enough for Sara to hear. She recoiled at the harsh tone of his voice.

"I'm sorry, I-" She broke off. The man had produced a shirt and a pair of shorts, the kind she would have worn when she was a kid. He dressed her, as if she _were _a child. Sara's face flushed at the embarrassment of it. She was in her thirties, not _three_. The man set his jaw, and Sara was suddenly confronted with a memory so deeply embedded in her mind that her knees went weak. The high cheek bones, the set jaw, the cold, angry look in his eyes- but it wasn't possible!

"Dad?" She whispered. The man looked at her in surprise- and then struck her hard across the face. Sara fell back with a cry.

"And I thought you were supposed to be smart. You _are _a stupid bitch, aren't you? Father is dead." It took a few seconds for this to sink in before she finally, truly realised, and the full meaning of it crashed around her.

"J-Jesse," She murmured, shaking with fear. "Jesse, why-"

"Why did I want to see my little sister? Fuck knows. It's not like you ever wanted to see _me._" He hissed, shooting a glare at Sara. She shook her head wildly.

"Jess, I _tried_, I wanted to. I asked every day for months but they kept saying no, and then-" Her brother laughed derisively.

"And then you forgot about me, didn't you? You forgot about all the times I protected you from our dear, dead dad. You forgot all the times I washed you, dressed you, made sure you had something to eat before school; even if it meant I went hungry. You forgot all of the bruises I kissed better, all the times I let you sleep in my bed because you were too scared to be in a room by yourself. You forgot it all. You left me behind in the dust of our shitty childhood, and you went to Harvard on some fancy scholarship and decided that you were Miss Independent, decided you didn't need or want me. You never tried to find me, even after everything I did for you." Jesse turned away, his rage seemingly depleted. Sara crawled to her knees.

"Jesse, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry- it was hard for me too, you know. I never had a permanent foster home, I just got bounced around until I left the system, and, well..." Her voice trailed away. Jesse had turned back to her, holding another length of rope.

"You had it easy, compared to me. There was no one to look out for me. I was sixteen, they just threw me out into the real world on my ass. There was never anyone to make sure I had enough food, or clean clothes, or a bed that didn't have no fucking cockroaches in it." His words were spiteful, and painful to hear, but there was no anger left in his voice. He pushed Sara forward, clasped her hands together and began to bind her wrists again. This stirred Sara into action, and she pulled away from him, lashing out with her foot. He moved just in time to avoid being kicked hard in the gut. Then he reached out, grasped Sara by the neck, and as her hands went up to try and pull them away, he punched her in the stomach. She was too winded to cry out as he released her, letting her fall to the ground with a soft 'ooph' as the air left her lungs.

"What do you want from me?" She gasped as he started to tie her wrists again, too engrossed by pain to move.

"Well, see Sara, I'm not like you. I _never _forgot what happened to us. I _never _pretended that I had a perfect childhood. I _never _pretended that I don't have a sister. So here's what I'm gonna do;" He cut the ends off the length of rope he had used on her wrists, and turned to her ankles. "I'm going to hurt you, the same way dad hurt me whenever I protected your sorry ass. I'm going to hurt you like you hurt me when you never tried to see me after mom stabbed him to death. And then," He held the large kitchen knife up to the light, where the refraction bounced off it. "I'm going to end this bloodline. I'm going to make sure that neither one of us fucks up our own kids." He placed the knife against Sara's throat. She dared not breathe, just stared at her older brother in terror. Jesse smirked at her expression. "I want your life, Sara. I'm going to kill us both."


End file.
